a vendetta of viola
by doroniasobi
Summary: he doesn't refer to her as anything special. that is why she likes him, best. — an ode to Viola


**A/N: I'd actually had this idea for a really long time, what with Viola being one of my dearly loved characters in the whole Ace Attorney fandom. I didn't like how she didn't get a lot of attention after her appearance in that case. So here's to her and my first (still very short) fic in the AA fandom!**

* * *

Viola likes to think of herself as a mishap—a person who was not meant to be, a person not significant enough to be recognized in the world as a real person, that is, a person who merely follows what other people do. Playing with friends after school, gossiping about the cutest boys in class, or talking about how intimidating the upperclassmen were, with their height and their loud, boisterous laughing in the hallways on the second floor; these things were all very foreign to her as a child, all so unfamiliar and not _normal_.

(And of course, her definition of 'normal' was that of unlike any of her other classmates' definition of 'normal', too.)

Her official name is Violet S. Cadaverini; the S standing for something the people around her never cared about and Cadaverini being her grandfather's name and her grandfather's father's name as well (the name 'Cadaverini' is never something to mention in public, however; she grew up seeing peoples' grimaces and flinches and expressions of disgust). The _Violet_ part of the entire combination is from her late mother, who passed away far too soon and would never get to see her child grow up in the sick, twisted fashion she had.

No one calls her that, though. She is Viola, both commonly and professionally. To people that she calls her acquaintances (not quite friends, however) she is Vi. To her past lovers, she was Vio. A second cousin calls her Letta, which she hates, and the brother of that second cousin does not refer to her as anything special.

Many years later however, there is a man. Viola does not remember him being handsome or charming or with the friendly sparkle in his eye. She meets him on a hospital bed, with him leaning against the door frame, his head raised and his teeth bared.

It doesn't cross her mind that maybe he has come to visit her—_her—_until he turns to face her, face dark, hair spiked back.

"Hey," he calls out to her, voice coming in deep baritones; not quite melodic, but still there. "Hey, you."

Her heart flutters a bit and her hands clench into fists, grasping the sheets until her hands are white, white, white.

Viola decides she likes him the best.

* * *

After being released, she works for him. But by then, his personality is soft, a disgustingly cute smile forming on his face whenever she appears. There is a small pit of despair in her stomach, but she pushes on. She tries to ignore it, tries to remind herself that he is still the same person who had once ignored the whole prospect of giving her a name—of giving her a title or role or status in life. Sometimes when she's watching him, he's a bit different from that time before. She works for her food in the evenings, but there are other things to worry about, too, even when there is nothing to do but sit and wait for the money to come through. Don Tigre never lets her go and retrieve the money, and she has a fair idea why, but she never says it out loud, just in case it's true.

Sometimes when his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, she thinks she knows him completely. The scar furthest from his hand is from when he fell off his first bike when he was eight. The next one down directly on his elbow is from that time when he tried to climb up the stair railings and fell five stairs down on tiled floor. And the one on the back of his hand happened because in junior high, he picked a fight with an upperclassman and he'd gotten beat up very thoroughly; Viola knows that there might be other scars, maybe on his legs, from that incident, but he never pulls his pant legs up, nor does he wear shorts, even in the middle of summer.

At these times, Viola likes to think that she knows absolutely everything about him. She likes the idea of knowing him more than she knows herself, to the point that any question directed at him she would be able to answer, no matter what.

But another day, she accidentally overhears him talking with her grandfather and she overhears the words 'money' and 'hospital' and 'damages'. Then her grandfather asks Don Tigre a question and there is no response.

It doesn't make any sense, Viola thinks at first. But that's okay—Viola doesn't know the answer to this question either, and from his silence, neither does Don Tigre, and that's okay, because that just means that the two of them know just about the same amount of information about him.

A few moments later, when Don Tigre walks out, he sees her, his eyes widen, and there is a flash of anger across his face.

_Yes_, she thinks. This is what she had been missing from him. _Yes._

Only a heartbeat later, the irritating smile is back, plastered on his face.

"Violetta," he cooes. "Sweetie, I think we've just found our next client. We'll be meeting him at that lovely, pink French restaurant tomorrow at around noon, alright?"

_Violetta_.

She hates it. When she goes home that evening, she sits in the washroom, crouched on the floor, and tries not to throw up. When her grandfather is outside knocking, asking her if she is alright, she flings a toothbrush at the door and does not speak for the rest of the night.

* * *

The plan is in great detail the next day. There is a whole stack of paper in front of her; Don Tigre goes through what she needs to know clearly and says it all in a frustratingly voice that is too cutesy, too lighthearted. He makes everything seem so easy—_jus' pretend to be the waitress; I'll knock her out and youse can borrow one of their uniforms—_like he's killed someone before. But Viola hasn't, and even if she isn't the one who will be doing the killing, something in her stomach turns.

She tells both him and herself that she's ready. And her gut tells her that she isn't, but she's already decided, so she ignores the feeling and continues to walk.

* * *

When she touches the spare uniform for the pink French restaurant, her stomach turns again. She pretends it's nothing and follows through.

* * *

_This time, we goin' to court._

She cuts the cardboard badge out carefully, gingerly, and after she's done with that, she goes out and buys a blue suit, modifies it a bit with her sewing kit. (She doesn't realize that all this time, her fingers have been trembling.)

She holds the suit up and flips it over, briefly wondering what would happen if the real famous rookie lawyer were to find out. What would happen if they held another trial? Would she get caught?

(She also doesn't realize that very, very deep down in her mind, she wishes that Don Tigre would get caught. And maybe she would, too, but that was okay—they knew her as Viola Cadaverini, granddaughter of Bruno Cadaverini; nothing less. But also nothing more.)

* * *

The real one _does_ appear some point later on. He looks nothing like what Don Tigre had looked like when he was in court, nor did he act like the genuine Phoenix Wright. She offers him espresso and cookies when he arrives; he doesn't touch a one.

"Violet Cadaverini."

At first, it is such a shock that she doesn't realize that he's calling her name. Her _name_.

"Am... I not right?" His brow furrows a bit.

She looks deep into his eyes, sees both a small friendly sparkle and a determined sparkle to go with, and decides to tell him the truth. Maybe she had only been waiting for someone like him to come along. Maybe that was just _it_. It was okay now—he is nothing like Don Tigre, would never be.

"Yes," she tells him, and she can feel something inside her shatter; it's not a bad feeling, nor is it a good feeling. It is a just a feeling; one that cannot be expressed into words. "Yes," she says again, her gaze straight; direct—forward.

"My name is Violet S. Cadaverini."

* * *

In the end, it is still the same, almost.

Violet S. Cadaverini; the S stands for something no one cares about, and the Cadaverini is from her grandfather, from her grandfather's father, and maybe even further back. (The Cadaverini name still is not a name to be said in public, still induces quiet glares and grimaces, along with cringing and negative facial expressions.) The _Violet_ is still from her late mother, who had never been able to see her daughter fully grow into a sick, twisted person. She hadn't been able to see her evolve, either—into the person she would have been proud to call her daughter.

Today, Viola believes herself to be not quite a mishap, a person who was definitely meant to be, and a person significant to matter in someone's life. Today, Viola spends her days not working at Tender Lender, but reading analogies and different types of literature at home.

And one day in the future, she knows there will be someone who will call her Viola, Vi, Vio, and Letta, all in that order, and occasionally, when she feels like it, Violet and Violetta. Viola notices that she doesn't really care anymore, doesn't think much of things, and slowly, it becomes a comfort, to have many nicknames called by many, many people who still do not even know one variation.

Viola no longer has a job, nor does she have one of those stacks of papers that plan everything out for you. She doesn't have a blueprint to map out her entire life out, nor a finger to be pointed in the right direction.

Her past has many faults, many flaws and losses. She, on the other hand, has a name.

* * *

_Owari_

_2011.01.16  
_


End file.
